


The stakes remain too high

by ember_firedrake



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Blow Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 15:07:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3941365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ember_firedrake/pseuds/ember_firedrake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Joe doesn’t do this sort of thing with other paratroopers.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The stakes remain too high

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annundriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annundriel/gifts).



> Title from Mumford & Sons' "Snake Eyes"

Joe doesn’t do this sort of thing with other paratroopers. Too much risk of discovery, and he much prefers total anonymity with these sorts of encounters. But the guy—Webster, he tells himself—had caught his eye across the London pub as Joe raised an ale to his lips. He was pretty—hollywood good looks, his mouth slightly parted as he regarded Joe across the bar with a weighted, assessing look. Joe had recognized Webster as a Toccoa guy, not one from Easy company. That’s what ultimately helped Joe reach his decision, as he finished off his drink and moved to leave the pub, casting a pointed look at Webster as he went. 

Now—tucked away in a dark alley, Web’s mouth hot against his while his hands pin Joe to the rough stones behind him—Joe wonders that he never did this sooner. There’s a certain thrill in feeling the hard press of muscle against his torso, knowing that Webster ran those same three miles up, three miles down Currahee until his calves and his lungs and his body ached. The adage _as long as he’s a paratrooper_ echoing in Joe’s mind, and he would almost laugh if not for wanting to groan at the press of Web’s tongue against his own. 

“Shit,” Joe mutters when Web pulls back to nip along his jawline. 

It’s a rush, Joe realizes. Web’s got maybe an inch or two on him, and he’s broader in the shoulders, but Joe knows that with his own training he could turn this to his advantage. He could take Web in a fight. If he wanted to.

Right now, he doesn’t want to.

Web’s mouth is at Joe’s ear. “Turn around,” he whispers.

Joe puts a hand on Webster’s chest. “We aren’t fucking,” he says. Not that he doesn’t want to. He’s done it before, but he doesn’t have anything with him tonight because this wasn’t the original plan when he finally managed to secure a two-day pass. That is, not until he looked up from his drink earlier and found a pair of blue eyes looking back, heavy with intent. 

Web smiles. “Not what I had in mind. Not that that doesn’t sound appealing, but the...logistics might be difficult.”

Joe regards him, his own long-held cynicism giving him pause. Webster leans close, his hands bracketing Joe’s narrow hips, thumbs pressing at the jut of hipbones beneath slacks. 

“I want to try something—I read it in a book,” Web says. “You can tell me if you don’t like it.” 

It’s those same blue eyes regarding him now that convinced Joe to go against his long-held resolve not to fool around with paratroopers. Joe turns to face the wall behind him, resting his palms against cool stone. It grounds him, quelling his sudden nerves.

“A book? You go to college or something?” Joe asks, his laugh hitching as Web’s hands undo the button on his trousers, cupping his erection briefly through the fabric.

“Harvard,” Web says, and then Joe feels cool air across his skin as his slacks and underwear are pushed down, bunching above his knees.

Joe instinctively tries to spread his legs, but he’s hobbled by his own clothing and Web nudges his thigh a moment later. “Keep them together,” he says.

Joe’s confusion is short-lived, as Web grips his hips and leans in. His breath is warm on Joe’s neck, and Joe can feel the head of Web’s cock touching the back of his own thighs. Joe’s face feels suddenly hot, and he swallows against a throat now gone dry.

Webster’s grip on his hips is firm, mostly leverage as he gently thrusts forward, cock sliding into the gap created by by Joe’s thighs. It feels...not _bad_ , exactly, just odd. Joe can feel the slickness left in its wake, and the awareness makes something twist in his gut. 

“Is this okay?” Webster asks, voice a little shaky. 

Joe nods, glad he’s facing the wall and Web can’t see how red his face is. He tries to make a feeble attempt at a joke,“What kind of books were you reading?” 

Web's laugh is a huff of air against the nape of his neck, one he follows with a kiss to the same patch of skin. "Greek history," he says, before giving another experimental thrust of his hips. 

Any further questions Joe has about the nature of education taught at Harvard are lost a moment later at the slide of Web's cock against the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. He presses his forehead into the crook of his elbow as he lets out a ragged breath. Yeah, Joe thinks, he can see the appeal of this. Webster increases his pace, hips pumping steadily.

Joe isn't sure how, but the act somehow feels more illicit than getting fucked. Sweat and precome ease the passage in that narrow space, but there’s still a drag of friction that makes Joe shudder. Every few moments Web's cockhead brushes against Joe's perineum, sending a small jolt of pleasure through his body. Even so, his own enjoyment is secondary, and maybe that’s what feels obscene about this, making Joe’s face flush from how much this is affecting him. His cock, untouched, hangs heavy between his legs, its tip glistening. 

At the same time, this feels more intimate than any of his other encounters, even in this dark alley with their clothing pushed just far enough out of the way. Webster mouths at the back of Joe's neck, his hands grip desperately at Joe's hips as he rocks forward, seeking his own release. 

“Oh, fuck,” Webster groans. His forehead falls forward into Joe’s back, and maybe that’s what does it for Joe. He presses his legs tighter together, relishing the gasp that elicits from Web.

“ _Yeah_ , come on,” Joe says through gritted teeth. His own need is urgent, but he doesn’t want to touch himself yet. He’s too busy gripping the stones in front of him for balance as Webster grinds into him, hips thrusting erratically. Web goes suddenly tense, and Joe can _feel_ it, Web’s release hot and slick on the inside of his thighs. 

Joe’s legs feel boneless, the weight of Webster against his back making him want to sag forward. But then that pressure is gone, Web pulling back as his hands on Joe’s hips push, grappling until Joe is turned around, pushed against the wall. Web sinks to his knees, and Joe has barely a moment to process this change in position before Web has swallowed the length of him down.

Joe has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out. His hips stutter, Web’s hands holding him fast. As close as Joe is, he won’t last long. He can’t bring himself to look at Webster’s face, the stretch of his lips, whether his eyes are open or have fallen closed—too afraid that will do him in. Instead, it’s the touch of Webster’s hand on his thigh, thumb tracing the mess left there into still-sensitive skin, that finishes him. He lets out a ragged gasp as he comes.

Webster holds him through it, swallowing before he pulls back to nuzzle at the jut of Joe’s hipbone. Joe can see the faint marks left there by the press of Web’s fingers, discolorations that will surely be bruises come morning. “Oh,” Web says, and when he glances up his expression is sheepish. “I’m sorry about that.” 

Webster draws a handkerchief out from his pocket, using it to clean up the mess left on Joe’s thighs. It’s...an oddly tender gesture, and it makes something lurch in Joe’s gut. 

“Jesus,” Joe breathes, dragging Web to his feet to kiss him thoroughly. This is different from his other encounters, too. Normally there’s a furtive thanks and a parting of ways. They never see each other unless it’s by chance at another bar in the future, both of them pretending it didn’t happen. Not—whatever is going through Joe’s mind now, already wondering what a _next time_ with Webster would be like. That’s dangerous, and Joe is grateful Web’s in another company and they’ll be dropping on Europe soon enough. 

Memorable as the experience is, Joe is happy to push it from his mind and all that it might mean. He succeeds, for the most part, except for stolen moments in his bunk. It isn’t until they’re back in England after fighting in France, until they’re doing training drills in preparation for another jump, that Joe has cause to remember that night.

Until he sees Webster, staring at Joe like he’s seen a ghost, across the room. The rest of the guys are having fun, drinking and playing cards and darts, distracting themselves from the war still looming, and nobody notices the shared look. Nobody notices when Joe leaves to have a smoke outside, or when Web excuses himself a couple minutes later.

“I wasn’t sure whether or not you made it through Normandy,” Web says. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Joe asks, skipping pleasantries. 

Webster frowns. “I requested a transfer.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Web bristles. “Exactly what it sounds like. It’s not like I knew you’d be here. We didn’t exactly exchange details. The only reason we know each other’s names is because it’s sewn into half the stuff we own.”

Joe takes another drag of his cigarette, flicking the end to the ground and crushing it as he exhales. “That night never happened, okay? We aren’t talking about it, we aren’t going to acknowledge it.”

Webster’s expression is cold when Joe meets his eyes again. “Then why are you bringing it up now?” he asks, his voice a detached monotone. 

“Just want to make sure we’re clear.”

“Crystal.”

Joe leaves then, heading back to the barracks. He’s angry at himself, mostly—angry that Webster’s sudden reappearance in his life has thrown him off this badly. Angry that he’ll have to see Webster on a regular basis now, when he was supposed to be nothing more than an anonymous fuck. Angry that Webster doesn’t seem to care.

Joe is angry that it matters to him so much. That in spite of everything, when he saw Webster across the room earlier, all he could think about was the long-since-faded bruises on his hips. The gentle touch of Webster’s thumb tracing his inner thigh while Web sucked him off. 

Joe scrubs a hand through his hair. He needs to stop thinking about it. Nothing will come of it and it won’t happen again. This is why he never does this with paratroopers. With enough luck, he and Webster will end up in separate platoons.


End file.
